Infinite Loops Project: Freelancer Branch
by Wixelt
Summary: The Sirius Sector may be a big place, but when Edison Trent finds himself back on Freeport 7 just before it's destruction, he learns that the reality he thought he knew is just one among countless. Now, looping eternally through time, and with an entire multiverse at his fingertips, he's beginning to wonder if he's in over his head. Part of the Infinite Loops Project.


**INFINITE LOOPS PROJECT: Freelancer Branch**

 **Chapter 1: Enter the Freelancer**

* * *

 **1.1 (Wixelt)**

* * *

 **Freeport 7, Sigma-17 system**

"I'll have the million credits transferred to your account shortly."

"Thanks. Enjoy your boro-" Edison Trent, freelancer and trader, began, before an awareness of a sort unceremoniously washed over him, causing him to stumble backward in alarm, "Wait, what the…"

"Is everything alright, Mr. Trent?" Sam Lonnigan, supposedly a hired gun for Samura Heavy Industries, gave an uncaring frown, externally apathetic to the apparent dizzy spell his contact had fallen into.

"Yes." Trent shot back with a groan, before shaking his head, "I mean no. I just…" he fell silent for a moment, trying to comprehend the contradiction in his memory; the detail that would make sense of this impossible situation. Being less cerebral than some of his more scientific allies could have claimed, it took him longer than he would have liked to grasp.

Under the banner of the Order, he'd helped to win the war against the Nomads, some semblance of peace returning to the Sirius Sector, though no doubt it would take time to rebuild what had been lost. Despite this, it had been some months before both he and Juni had been pardoned of their alleged crimes, and they were able to return to colonized space without fear of a manhunt being started. Following this, he'd agreed to become, at the personal request of its leader Casper Orillion, the Order's eyes and ears in the Liberty systems, lest the threat of Nomad subterfuge rear its ugly head once more.

This was a promise that, despite his frequent excursions to other regions of the sector, he had largely kept to, making a point of returning to the endless city-scapes of Liberty's capital world, Manhattan, whenever he could, be it for important intel or simply for a rumor or two. It'd been one such occasion, only a couple of months later, that Trent could last recall, having been halfway through downing a glass of the ever-disgusting Liberty Ale (the bartender, despite his repeated requests, refused to serve Sidewinder Fang), when he suddenly found himself right back at the start, staring into the eyes of a dead man, upon a space station that should have no longer existed.

"It's none of my business if you have space sickness." Sam Lonnigan chuckled callously, having little to no care for his contact's state at that moment in time, "So if you'll excuse me, I'll be on my wa-"

*BOOM*

A powerful detonation (or impact, Trent wasn't sure, both then and now) suddenly rocked the floor beneath the two men, throwing both to the floor. Trent felt the uncomfortable presence of deja-vu come over him, as red emergency lights blared into action, the station itself close to disintegrating into a mass of twisted debris and wasted lives. Brought to destruction in moments by the at that point largely unknown threat that was the Nomads.

Both would find themselves in the vacuum of space in a matter of minutes if he didn't act as fast as he had originally.

"Come on, get up!" he shouted at Lonnigan, hoisting the balding man up by one arm, "I saw a life pod on the way here." Lonnigan, for all his talk, wasn't the brightest of men, but still had enough sense to simply nod at this. This was a good thing, too, as the walls of Freeport 7 were already beginning to buckle around them by the time their legs were in motion.

Trent reached the access hatch for the pod first, frantically tapping at the interface alongside it repeatedly for what seemed to be the second time in his apparent memory. With a relieving hiss of pressure, the reinforced steel entry point gave way to Trent's means of escape. He turned, expecting the so-called Samura rep to be directly behind him, when he was struck by what, in all honesty, was a familiar sight.

Sam Lonnigan, a good 20 meters down the passage, the structure around him finally beginning to give way, had stopped dead in his tracks. He was staring out of an adjoining porthole at the stars (and whatever else) that lay beyond, a look of fear and shock enrapturing his face, his mouth opening and closing in silent overture. In that moment, as the walls creaked and complained, a memory came to Trent. A memory of a man who had seen what no-one was meant to. A man crushed beneath a collapsing bulkhead. A man lying on a stretcher with severe injuries. A man who still owed Trent a million credits.

Before Lonnigan could even react, Trent pushed him backward, out of the way of what fate would otherwise proscribe. Now, with any luck, the two of them would still have time to-

He stopped, a rather significant thought entering his head.

If he'd pushed Lonnigan out of the way, then who was taking his place?

Trent barely had time to look up and curse, as he was thoroughly eviscerated by a large chunk of falling debris.

* * *

 **1.2 (Wixelt)**

* * *

"I'll have the million credits transferred to your account shortly."

"Thanks. Enjoy your boro- Oh no…" Trent held his head, the realization of his situation beginning to set in.

"Is everything alright, Mr. Tre-" Lonnigan began, voice like a broken record, before he was interrupted, denied the right to continue.

"We… we have to get off this station. Now." The freelancer muttered, fingers still on his temples.

"What in the worlds are you talking abo-"

*BOOM*

"That…" Trent found himself on the floor for the second time in as many minutes, "That is what I was walking about."

"How did you-"

"That isn't important-"

"You bet your ass it is!" Lonnigan's cold and calm facade instantly gave way to the anger, paranoia and manic fear that Trent had, somewhat unwillingly, come to know him by. Slowly, his eyes widened as he rose to his feet, "This is an attack isn't it? Oh god no… No… This is an attack!"

"Look, if you'd just pull it together and follow me, I can-"

"Hell no!" Trent raised his arms, suddenly finding himself on the receiving end of Lonnigan's personal firearm, "You're coming with me! To my ship! Don't think you can trick me into going down with you into this damned fireball!"

"There won't be time to get to your shi-"

"There will be." Lonnigan said flatly, never once dropping his weapon, the look on his face betraying that this wasn't open for discussion, "Now move!"

Admittedly, there wasn't time. The cold emptiness of the starry void could attest to that.

* * *

 **1.3 (Wixelt)**

* * *

*BOOM*

"What… what the hell?" Lonnigan rose first this time, panic once again setting in, "What's going on-"

*THWACK*

Trent punched the somewhat unstable man in the side of the face, watching his form crumble to the ground. He gave an annoyed sigh, before hoisting the rep's unconscious body over his shoulder and carrying him quickly to the life pod, as Freeport 7 exploded yet again. Sure, Lonnigan technically hadn't pointed a gun at him yet, but Trent felt he'd at least earned the right to a retaliatory strike.

* * *

 **Planet Manhattan, New York system**

Commander Jun'ko Zane had seen a lot of things in her career with the Liberty Security Force. Death, betrayal and corruption happened to be among the lesser things her LSF training her taught her. Unsurprisingly, however, said training had never included what to do in the situation of time travel. Or at least claims of time travel, anyway.

"So…" she sighed with annoyance, "Let me get this straight. You, Mr. Trent, claim to be from the future. A future where, allegedly, you know me and we worked together to fend off an alien conspiracy within the colonies." She shook her head, "And you expect me to simply accept that as fact when, from my perspective, we've just met," she fixed the leather jacketed man sitting across the bar booth from her with a hard stare, "and when, according to reports, both from others and yourself, you assaulted another survivor during the destruction of Freeport 7."

"It was to ensure he survived." Trent replied, a trademark intensity and cynicism in his voice, "I wouldn't have been able to get him out otherwise."

"That may be the case, but it doesn't leave me inclined to believe your story." Jun'ko shook her head, before standing, "Now if you'll excuse me, I'd appreciate it if you stopped wasting my time."

"Juni, wait-"

"Stop." Jun'ko spun on her heel, fixing Trent with a piercing glare, "I don't know who told you about that name, but using it won't do you any favors. Goodbye, Mr. Trent. Be sure not to approach me again." And with that, she turned swiftly, before taking her leave.

Trent let out a groan of annoyance, his chances of following his previous route shattered by an attempt at disclosure. He considered, however brief, that he should have made sure he understood his position himself before baring all like that. He managed a chuckle as his picked up his glass, chugging down the Libertonian poison to spite his own stubborn nature.

* * *

 **1.4 (Wixelt)**

* * *

 **Hood Asteroid Field, Dublin system**

Dexter Hovis had raced a lot of nut-jobs in his time, both in his professional piloting career back in Liberty, and now in this backwater circuit. He'd seen people who'd come in guns blazing, people who'd try and make him second guess himself, and even people who weren't above sabotaging his ship before the race began. He'd seen almost all of them off, he was proud to say, even if he himself had needed to resort to similar tactics to do so, on more than one occasion.

This Trent fellow, though… he was something else entirely. Sure, he was winning, by a large margin in fact, and in any other situation Hovis would have taken this as a refreshing change of pace. But then there was the fact that he was managing to do so whilst flying backwards, which was another kettle of fish entirely.

He shouldn't have been able to keep pace like that. Not even remotely, in fact.

"Y'know Bretonian, this is just insult to injury." Hovis barked into the inter-ship comm link, the ire in his voice evident as he checked his systems for the fifth time to find any sabotage that might be present. He found none.

"When you're good, you're good, Hovis." The amusement in Trent's voice was evident, as if he already knew his victory was assured, "We had a deal, I recall."

"Ah, fine." The exiled racer powered down his engines somewhat begrudgingly, "I'll tell ya where Quintaine is. Meet me back in the bar when we land. I'll talk to ya then."

Trent allowed himself a rare, smug grin behind his flight helmet as he closed the comm link. Sure, playing Hovis at his own twisted game was fun, especially once you knew all his tricks, but to have him concede before the race was even over; now that was a crown jewel. Of course, when you find a way to make your ship's cruise engine work in the opposite direction without causing any lasting damage to your ship, you reserve the right to use that innovation however you please. At least, that's how Trent saw it, anyway.

Not that he was going to mention that to Dexter, of course.

* * *

 **1.5 (Wixelt)**

* * *

 **Planet Manhattan, New York system**

"You think you're safe, but you aren't!"

"What are you talking about?" With the unfortunate view of hindsight, Trent knew all too well what Lonnigan was rambling about, but inferring that wouldn't help matters in the slightest.

"What do you think happened on Freeport 7, hm?" the deranged, hollow shell of a man stood amid the hustle and bustle of Manhattan's many landing pads, his entire body trembling. And yet, in his presence, everything else seemed so distant.

Trent had no doubts in his mind that Sam Lonnigan was not and never had been his friend. Much like he once had, the rep would usually put himself and his employer first, human decency playing second fiddle to monetary gain. At least, he had once upon a time. Now all the freelancer saw was a man reduced to base fear by what he could not understand nor control.

"It was blown to scrap." Trent growled despite himself, pushing himself through the conversation with a familiar response, as if ad-libbing from a half-remembered script, "Like my ship, my boron and the million credits that, by the way, you still owe me."

With the view of what seemed to be an eternity on his hands, there were some things he just wouldn't give up on. No matter what he might have told others, the loss of such a vast chunk of his life-style was something he couldn't let go of lightly.

"Tch." The older man, predictably, made his best attempt to brush the matter aside, "Easy come easy go."

"No. No dice." Trent found himself once again advancing, the diminutive figure before him shrinking back behind the intensity of his glare, "We had a deal."

"A deal that died with the station." Lonnigan groaned, hands reaching for his head as if to repair what couldn't be unbroken; to erase what could never been unseen, "…it all seems so long ago now. It doesn't matter anyway." The man moved to pass Trent, his speech slipping into a loose and abrupt chatter, "They want all of us dead…"

"You don't say." Skepticism, real or put on, was evident in Trent's voice. The man before him would be convicted as psychologically deranged by any lawful court, even if Trent knew his 'delusions' weren't as imaginary as they initially seemed to be. As he had been forced to learn repeatedly, much darker and inhuman things lay waiting beneath the calm and deceptively serene surface the colonies were presenting, as external forces acted to bring humanity to the brink of destruction.

"There's men." Lonnigan continued to mumble absently, his motions becoming increasingly frantic by the second, "These… these government men. They'll find the manifest. They'll know we were there. They're already after me!"

"So what," Trent raised his hand to interject into the apparent madness he was witnessing, all too aware of their limited time. Lonnigan was always followed, that was a factor that never changed, "You escaped from medical?!"

"Had to. They came for me because of what I saw… on the station. What did this to me." The hunted shook his head before correcting himself in a weak attempt to gain Trent's belief, "To us. Those ships, they weren't there, but they- they…"

"Weren't…" Trent frowned as Lonnigan trailed off again, cutting himself off in the process. He'd attempted to clarify the existence of cloaking technology before, but with such a concept being beyond his understanding, it had ended about as well as every other time he'd used his foreknowledge in conversation with the man.

That meant, much to Trent's irritation, that an old favorite would have to do, "Lonnigan, you're not making any sense."

"You don't understand!"

"You bet your ass I do!" the temporal irony of the phrasing used would unfortunately be lost upon Lonnigan, but Trent persisted regardless, "Or at least enough. If there's men after you-"

"Us, Trent!" Lonnigan shouted vehemently, "We're not safe here anymore! We have to get out of Liberty-" he stopped, his eyes going wide, "No…"

"Hey you!" And just like that time continued as normal. Trent let out a tempered breath as the harbinger of warning was gunned down (albeit only with sedative darts, though his eventual demise was supposedly all but assured now) by a pair of rogue police agents as he made his best effort to flee.

Trent let out a sigh as, if all went according to design, he would momentarily find himself twitching and convulsing on the floor, rendered unconscious by a glorified cattle prod.

Trent had never really been a major fan of such grand plans, though. In fact, with the view of hindsight, he actively planned against them.

"Hey, what do you think you're-" Trent was expectedly cut off as one of the approaching pair swung his stun baton across his gut to fell him.

…and was genuinely surprised when his victim didn't fall to the ground. That must have been a first for a Nomad, Trent figured, though he wasn't about to stop for an interview.

"Now, where was I…" The freelancer in question gave his speechless assailant a cocky grin, as he cracked his knuckles, thanking his good graces that Juni had approved his acquiring an armored vest. Nomad-infected or not, it was much easier to uppercut someone when they were caught off guard.

* * *

 **1.6 (Wixelt)**

* * *

 **Freeport 7, Sigma-17 system**

"I'll have the million credits transferred to your account shortly."

"Thanks. Enjoy your boro- n." Trent completed, letting out a slight cough to mask his 'arrival'.

"Is everything alright, Mr. Trent?" Lonnigan gave him an apprehensive look.

"It is." Trent shook his head, "I breathed in some dust."

"…I see." The rep didn't quite seem to believe him, but apparently didn't care enough to pursue the matter, "Well, if that's all, I must be on my…" he trailed off at the sight of the man before him apparently bracing for some manner of impact, "…way."

Trent cracked one eye open, then the other, the expected destruction of the station around him not coming to pass.

"Were you expecting something?"

"Oh?" Trent blinked several times, then shook his head, "No I… No. I just thought I heard something."

"Right..." Lonnigan shook his head, "Well, enjoy your credits, Mr. Trent." The older man frowned, before heading on his way, leaving a very confused freelancer in his wake.

"Huh…"

Perhaps he could get his due after all.

* * *

 **1.7 (Wixelt)**

* * *

 **Planet Manhattan, New York system**

"Sorry. The bartender said you worked for the Liberty Security Force." Trent spoke on what by now seemed like autopilot; a well-practiced line drawn from memory. There were moments like this in every repeat: Factors that never seemed to change, no matter the variables.

"And who do you work for Miss… um…"

"Trent. I work for myself."

And then, of course, there were those times, also like this one, when the world itself decided it was going to throw things for a loop.

Emily Trent sighed internally, hands on her hips. Usually it was only insignificant things, like someone's favorite color, the weapons on their ship, or even their rank; but every so often something like this would occur. Sure, things being less certain alleviated the boredom somewhat, but Trent had grown accustomed to that certainty. It was what kept her on the straight and narrow, to a degree. To take that away…

"I see." Juni, for what it was worth, was almost unchanged by whatever had been committed to. A constant beacon amid a storm. Whilst Lonnigan, King and, heck, even Trent herself had experienced regular shifts (a fact that she was glad her memories were compensating for), be it in gender, history or otherwise, every so often, Juni had seen far less variation. It was just how the odds had played out, she figured.

LSF Commander Jun'ko Zane, daughter of Liberty and Kusari. Trent didn't consider herself sentimental, but that rarely differing fact had kept her grounded thus far, and though she wouldn't need it forever, she was grateful.

Not that Trent would ever admit that to her, of course. Though she would eventually forget all of this as she always had, it would be easy to give Juni the wrong idea in the short term. That wasn't exactly something Trent wanted, regardless of the variables in play.

* * *

 **1.8 (Wixelt – Idea by Masterweaver)**

* * *

 **Somewhere in the Omicron systems**

"What am I looking at?"

Trent, despite his usual collected temperament, had found himself on the verge of a nervous breakdown. The loops had been something he felt he could deal with. They'd tested his patience with their penchant for changing, leaving him unsure of what to expect. After the first few decades, though, he'd found himself gradually adapting to it, able to, if not cope, then at least not go completely insane.

Then things had simply decided to stop making sense altogether, reality apparently deciding it was going to swing into its death throes.

"Trent, there's a Fonduiser on your tail! Evade!" Juni's voice came in over comms. Trent's eye twitched uncontrollably at the pun, his question apparently falling on deaf ears. The Nomads, it seemed, had been replaced by cheese sticks. An entire hostile alien race, literally made of assorted cheeses.

He wasn't sure whether he should laugh or scream.

* * *

 **1.9 (Wixelt)**

* * *

 **Black Mesa Research Facility, Earth, Sol system**

"Ah jeez, I'm running la- ate. Well, can't get it right every time."

Trent snapped back to reality. Or snapped into it. He couldn't tell. He felt normal but… it wasn't. He rapidly did a full circle, taking in his surroundings.

'Wait, this isn't…'

He was on a tram of some sort, albeit much less advanced than some of the ones in the colonies. Or was this normal? He put a hand to his head as a second set of memories seemingly materialized alongside his own. Edison Trent, Black Mesa Security Force.

Trent rubbed his temples. This was unlike the normal changes. This was an entirely new reality, it seemed. No-one he knew, no matter what form they took, to use as a point of reference.

'What is this…?'

He was on his own.

"You okay there, bucko?"

Coming out of his thoughts, Trent looked up, immediately finding himself face to face with a bearded man in glasses and a lab coat. His new memories provided him the name Dr. Gordon Freeman, despite being aware that he shouldn't have known the man at all.

"What," the freelancer turned security hire narrowed his eyes, "What is this?"

"Bad night, huh?" Dr. Freeman raised an eyebrow, "Wake up in a trash compactor or something? Been there…"

"I…" Trent frowned, not entirely sure what to make of that for a moment. He was at a loss, though, so being blunt would have to be the order of the day, "Look, I'm just going to say it. I don't belong here."

"Oh. Fused loop." Freeman appraised, "Why the fuck didn't you just say so?"

"Fused…" Trent staggered, "You're not making any sense." though his memories told him that was apparently the norm for this man.

"Wait, wait." The spectacled figure seemed to have a moment of anguished epiphany, "New Looper, right. Dammit, why do I have to deal with this shit. And Kleiner isn't even Awake to help…"

"…you've lost me."

"Look, this is gonna suck, but I'm just gonna be blunt here. I'm not the best person to be explaining this crap to… well, anyone. But here goes anyway…"

* * *

"So, what you're saying is that reality is broken."

"Pretty screwed up, yeah." Gordon downed another shot, Trent sat next to him at one of Black Mesa's many recreation outlets, the pair having forgone an experiment one of them knew would continue without him, "The guys in charge put everything on repeat whilst they tried to fix it, and that was…" in his less than sober state, Gordon briefly attempted to count the time on one hand, before giving up, "Look, it was a long freakin' time ago. Put it that way."

"We're talking hundreds of years, then?"

"Try starting at a few trillion for the younger of us, and work from there. You kinda lose track after a while. Especially if you're an anchor like you and me. Welcome to the Infinite Loops, where a billion is a small ass number…"

"Damn." Trent reeled, taking in the facts of his new lifestyle as his scientist companion emptied another glass, "So that's just… forever, then. Forever alone…" He missed the somewhat amused look Gordon gave him.

Despite (or because of) his somewhat realistic outlook, he was struggling to the see the silver lining.

"Bright side, though, if you want to see it like that;" Gordon grinned, "You're the only one who'll definitely loop, but if you've got friends or family, they might 'wake up', if you get me. You got anyone like that?"

"A couple." Trent shrugged contemplatively, "Makes the idea bearable, but I wouldn't wish this on anyone, regardless." He watched a fourth shot go down the hatch, "What about you?"

"I don't believe in friends." Gordon shrugged, "Not around here, anyway." He stopped halfway to reaching for a fifth round, grimacing, "I mean, there's Kleiner, but that's less friendship and more fearful respect." He shuddered, "And he's not Awake right now anyway."

"How can you even tell?"

"…dammit, I need to teach you about Pings, don't I. And Pockets." The good doctor suddenly seemed to gain a sparkle in his eyes, scary levels of enthusiasm abruptly finding their way into his voice, "Wait, what am I saying?! I'm a great teacher!"

"Somehow I doubt that."

"Can it newbie! I have a doctor's degree!" Gordon sent a not entirely serious glare in Trent's direction, "You gonna buy anything before I start?"

"Depends, do they serve Sidewinder Fang?"

"…Gesundheit."

"So 'No', then."

Trent shook his head again. This was not going to be a fun lesson.

* * *

 **1.10 (Wixelt)**

* * *

 **"I'M BLOWING UP-"**

For your average Looper, the local baseline could be anything from horrific to a complete cakewalk, the factors of which largely depended on exactly what was involved. For Loopers with somewhat mundane worlds, as well as those who'd simply had the virtue of more time looping, baseline was a walk in the park, a script to be followed only when they really felt like it. For others, whose worlds were somewhat less predictable, it was all they could do not to step so much as a foot outside of the practiced and well learned motions, less their entire world go down in flames.

These two worldviews, Trent had learned, when taken to their logical extremes, had given rise to a pair of psychological conditions so disparate that both had been given names. He counted himself lucky that the nature of his reality, at least within its own baseline, didn't really lend itself to either.

 **"I hear something… COOLANT LEA-"**

It was true, the Sirius Sector was a big place full of countless possibilities and countless dangers, but it paled in comparison to the Dark Millennium in both scale and capacity for abject horror. On the other hand, the Sector, whilst the main 'story' of his life had a rigorously demanding chain of events that could easily derail without his presence, the way it played out was not demanding of any sort conformation to baseline.

Which was a good thing when you had a Subspace Pocket at your disposal to help speed things along.

Trent didn't usually consider himself all that thoughtful or introspective. He'd previously managed the situation in the moment, the rigors of his life both before and during the Nomad War not allowing for much time to even consider planning ahead. That was just the person he was.

It was a testament to the foresight the Loops provided him, then, that he could use the apparent quirks of his reality to his advantage.

 **"All systems have failed!" Losing pow-"**

He'd always wondered why the supposedly under-supplied and underpopulated criminal factions, namely the Corsairs and the Outcasts, apparently built the most powerful single-pilot ships in the colonies… and then never used them outside of their home systems. The exact reasons seemed to vary between loops, but the result was that, after enough cycles, Trent could bring a fully equipped Corsair M10 'Titan', fully equipped with the best weapons in the local cosmos, to every engagement, no matter where or when in his personal timeline it fell.

 **"What the He-"**

Another pirate's vessel was vaporized under a barrage of Class 10 weaponry as they swung round for another attack run, the drone of frantic radio chatter going largely unnoticed by their mark. This, oddly enough, led Trent to recall another observation he'd made about his universe during these, the opening days of his infinite time.

It was easy for him to mark what terms he was on with the factions and leaders of each region of the sector, his neural net making logging his standing an easy feat. But to see the effects in action was… well, to be honest it was somewhat disturbing.

Because, as he'd noticed, almost every faction, no matter who they were, had an agenda and ideals. Many of the claimed criminal factions were rebels, as his dealings with the Blood Dragons and the Order had told him. But at the end of the day, that didn't seem to matter in open space combat.

It didn't matter if Trent sided with governments, corporations, rebels, criminals, smugglers, traders or, in the case of one loop, the very alien parasites he'd long held a deep hatred for. If their scanners told them he was the enemy, he'd get a slew of threats catapulted his way, before they'd rabidly try to blast his ship into scattered debris. No attempts at resolution or clarification, or even a moment to check to see if his reputation with them was false, having been hacked after a particularly large bribe. Just pointing and shooting.

 **"Engage! Enga-"**

Contrary to the belief of certain others, Trent didn't take up bounty missions for the thrill of the fight. So, to see such ignorance was, if he was being bluntly honest, somewhat depressing. Because it didn't matter if it was societal or otherwise, it didn't exactly cast his branch's local humanity in the best of lights.

* * *

 **1.11 (Wixelt)**

* * *

Edison Trent woke up.

Or rather, he noted, Ecru Taupe did. Trent raised a curious eyebrow at that. His memories told him he was in a fused loop with a branch that had a color naming rule as part of a post-war tradition, and as such his usual title would make little sense here. He sighed. And he'd thought Edison had been bad…

Well, it wasn't all bad. He was slouched over on a bar stool in a not all that seedy establishment, a half-finished glass of brown-ish alcohol sat in front of him. It was quite expensive, according to his memories, and much more pleasant than many of his home beverages (hell, any drink that didn't have fuel waste as an ingredient was good in his book, really). Taking a swig, he glanced around, finding the outlet mostly empty save for himself and the man serving. Best to check the locals, he supposed.

Despite the number of iterations it had been since Gordon had first taught him to ping, it still felt incredibly odd to use what was essentially a psychic ability when he was so used to using technology. Nevertheless, he relented in doing so, receiving quite a considerable number in return.

"Now that was a match!" Trent blinked, looking over at the sound of the bartender speaking. The man in question was watching a holographic screen set up nearby, which was displaying the ending of a tournament. The word 'Vytal' crossed his mind briefly, and Trent considered that he might want to probe his local memories a little further.

Within seconds, he straightened up a little, his own history coming a little more into focus. Among other things, his in-loop nieces were taking part in the Vytal Festival, his 'sister' and himself had grown up as part of a bandit tribe that he had since abandoned, and he was working for a man by the name of Ozpin, the headmaster of the local combat school, as part of some secret conspiracy to fight off an ancient evil.

That last one, at least, felt familiar. Maybe it wasn't Orillion and the Order, but he could work with this, at least.

"Hrm," Downing his glass, 'Taupe' stood, tossing some of the local currency onto the bar top as he turned away, the bartender fixing him with a confused look, "Keep the change."

As the freelancer staggered outside, noticing for the first time that his unAwake self had been considerably drunk, he caught a hint of movement out of the corner of his eye. Turning, he was greeted by the sight of a majestic white vessel soaring overhead, and up towards the cliffs behind the city, where the aforementioned combat school stood. Trent couldn't help but chuckle slightly to himself, recalling that, prior to Awakening, he'd had some 'business' with its inhabitant.

That said, that was a no-go now. Not only would it be incredibly stupid if this Winter Schnee was both Looping and Awake, but a bad first impression could last; a lesson his initial loops had burned into him regarding a certain LSF commander. Trent hummed thoughtfully to himself, noting that, without that slap on the wrist, he'd have been as rough, abrasive even, as his Baseline self had been once upon a time. Even Trent had to admit that he hadn't been the most pleasant of company in the beginning.

He hoped time had been kind to him.

* * *

It was some time later that Trent, after several hi-jinks, had found himself in a student dorm room, sat opposite a teenage girl in a red cloak, a plate of cookies placed between them, and a glass of milk clutched in his hands.

He'd seen more surreal things in his comparatively brief time looping, but the fact that said teenage girl was, by all accounts, a fully vetted time abyss, put it somewhere up there.

"So…" Ruby mused, a wide eyed and curious expression covering her features, "You said you were from a space loop, right?"

"The Sirius Sector, yeah." Trent nodded, furrowing his brow, "What about it?"

"Do you have many ships?"

"I've got at least 1 of almost all of my branch's ships."

"How big do they get?"

"Probably not as big as you're imagining. A lot of them are solo fighters." The freelancer shook his head, a frown beginning to form on his face, "Look, I don't want to be rude, but is there a point to this?"

"I have this huge shipyard in my pocket. I had a butt ton of ships of all kinds in it." Ruby's grin faltered a little, "Until recently, at least…"

"…tough subject?"

"I'd…" Ruby shook her head, "We've just met, so I don't want to bother you. You'll probably hear about it sooner or later, anyway."

"Sure," Trent nodded, "You were saying?"

"Yeah," Ruby continued, her enthusiasm having returned a little, "Anyway, I've been looking for ships to refill it with."

"…sounds interesting." A small, good natured smirk began to play on Trent's lips, "I'd be willing to do a trade."

"What for?"

"Well, I've been, um," the spacer coughed, "working on a personal project that you might be interested in."

"Oooh." Ruby's eyes practically sparkled at the implied prospect, "Go on."

"I've been upgrading one of my loop's more powerful ships, the Titan, with whatever suitable tech I can scavenge." Trent explained, now seeming genuinely enthused, an oddity even when he was Awake, "I'm building a personal ship, basically."

"And you want parts?"

"That about sums it up, yeah."

"Well…" Ruby mused, a small joy in her voice, eyes never leaving the younger Looper all the while, "I suppose I could do a switch…"

"I have ship guns that use practically no energy to fire."

"Done."

Trent grinned again. The engineer in him was practically doing a mental happy dance right now. He wouldn't show it as clearly on the outside, but somehow, he felt that he'd get on well with Ruby. At least as far as mechanical matters were concerned, anyway.

* * *

 **1.12 (Wixelt)**

* * *

Big Mac knew a new visitor to the Equestria branch when he saw one. Putting aside the obvious differences in memories, his eons of experience with the various patrons of his bar had led him to pick up on certain visual ticks that gave folks away, especially when they were on edge.

The brown furred pegasus slumped on the bar stool opposite was no exception, his forehooves twitching nervously as he stared down at them.

"Drink for yer thoughts?" Mac said after a long moment, as the newcomer finally looked up at him, "Or did you just want the company?"

"Depends." The pegasus shifted absently, rolling his shoulders, "You got Sidewinder Fang?"

"Can't say ah have, ah'm afraid." The orange-maned bartender shook in the negative, "That a drink from your loop?"

"The best there is." the visitor affirmed, before sighing, lamenting forgetting to pocket any of his favorite beverage, "I guess company will do, then." He awkwardly held out a hoof, taking several moments to get the gesture right, "Name's Edison Trent. Anchor for the Sirius Sector branch." There was a brief pause, before he added, "But just call me Trent"

"Big McIntosh." Big Mac nodded as he returned the shake, then considered the patron for a moment, "Ah've got no loopin' memories of ya'll. You replacin' anyone?"

"Not as far as I can tell. Just a travelling trader. Principal Flier, I think." Trent frowned, then chuckled, "You know, when Gordon told me there was a pony universe, I didn't believe him."

"The multiverse 's a big place."

"To be fair, he was drunk at the time. And he did forget to tell me about…" the freelancer paused, sparing a glance at the blue, circled spacecraft silhouette on his flank, "…some things."

"Ee'yup. We're certainly unique among the branches." Mac offered a smile, absently cleaning a glass, "But we're a sanctuary for a reason."

"I could tell." Trent mused, before righting himself, "Sorry, I like to think I'm better to talk to than this, but…" he laughed emptily, "This is my thousandth loop. Don't know why I kept track, but…"

"…You're alone in your home branch, aren't ya'll." the bartender's statement was half question, half realization, but still cut through Trent like a knife through butter.

"…Yeah, yeah." The visiting Looper gave an affirmative nod, before grimacing, "In my first fused loop, I told Gordon I didn't want anyone to suffer with me, but now…"

"It makes sense, ya'll know, not wanting to be alone."

"…you sure?" Trent blinked, uncertainty masking his features.

"Without a doubt." Mac said, "We Loopers are meant to keep t' Anchor stable, after all."

"Guess that explains Gordon." Trent shuddered, recalling how the scientist and resident nut-job had only one fellow Looper to his branch, "Though I got the feeling he wasn't right to begin with."

"I doubt ya'll end up like that, of course." Mac said, "It doesn't matter if it's sooner or later, you won't be alone for long."

The foreign Anchor stared at Mac for a few seconds, before giving the first full smile he'd managed since he'd arrived.

"Thanks. I think I needed to hear that." Trent's hooves finally ceased their movement, his nerves largely soothed. A new good mood forming, he finally took a glance at the drinks behind the bar.

"I can still make an order, right?"

"Ya'll are free to."

The Anchor grinned. Maybe he had something to look forward to after all.

* * *

With a reluctant chug, Trent downed a glass of Liberty Ale, cringing slightly at the taste. Setting the drink down, he gave a false smile to the bartender, who simply nodded and took his glass away.

The freelancer frowned. After Big Mac's selection, a small taster of which Trent was keeping in his pocket for a special occasion, his local hydrogen waste filled death-brew was even less appealing than it already hadn't been. That said, whilst his home loop had its downsides, such as there being only one decent drink in all charted space (in his opinion, anyway), there were upsides.

"I thought I'd find you here, boy."

Trent blinked in surprise, looking across at the familiar thick, grizzled Bretonian accent, being greeted by an older, dark haired man in a red and white tradesman's uniform. In other words, he was met with the unmistakable sight of his friend, mentor and father figure, Richard Winston Tobias.

"Tobias…" Trent's exclamation was genuine, for once, his shock evident. In all the loops that he'd been through, many things had been constant, whilst others had changed. But not once, not even briefly, had Tobias ever come to the New York system, all the way from Bretonian space, to see if he was alright after the Freeport 7 incident.

In fact, Trent was sure he'd only told the man who'd raised him about his presence there after the war was over, the first time around, and intermittently after that.

"It's good to see you, lad." Tobias clapped Trent on the shoulder, a look of relief on his face, "When I heard about the Freeport…" he shook his head, glancing back and forth warily, before fixing his former apprentice with a sharp gaze, "Look, my boy. There's some things I need to discuss with you. Important things."

"Such as the impending Rheinland invasion attempt?"

The look of surprise on Tobias' face was priceless, and Trent mentally cursed himself for not having a camera on hand.

"Well then…" the Bretonian equipment dealer raised an eyebrow as his initial shock faded, a thin smile escaping onto his features, "It seems we both have a lot to talk about."

"Yeah, so…" Trent gestured to the bartender again, who began to pour out another round of drinks, despite their taste, "There's a lot going on here. Where do you want me to start?"

"The basics would be nice," Tobias raised an eyebrow, before chuckling lightly, "But I suppose I'll make do with whatever you hand me. If I'm guessing correctly, I'm addressing my senior."

"Please don't call me that, Tobias." The Anchor sighed, before shrugging, "Alright, the basics. So, uh, there's this thing call Yggdrasil…"

* * *

 _For those of you unfamiliar with the **Infinite Loops Project** , these are the absolute basics._

 _Yggdrasil, the world tree supercomputer that runs the multiverse, has been broken catastrophically. To give them time/space to repair it, the Admins (basically the gods for all intents and purposes) have put all functional universes in infinitely repeating time loops whilst they sort everything out._

 _At first only one person in each "branch" of the tree is aware that time is looping. This person is the Anchor, the being whose existence holds their universe together, and though over the course of eons others close to them will become "Awake", aware of the repetition of time, they are the only person guaranteed to be around for every single repeat._

 _This has been going on for literally quadrillions of years, with new branches activating over time. The oldest branches data right back to the start, whilst branches like Freelancer are brand new, even if the data's been sitting in the wings for a while. The ETA on Yggdrasil being fixed is basically infinity, though over time various loops may receive expansions as new data becomes available through repairs (for obvious reasons, this probably won't happen for Freelancer)._

 _There's far more to it than this, but to save time, this, and all additional links, can be found on TVTropes under 'The Infinite Loops', and the working community itself can be found on the website SpaceBattles, mostly under the Creative Writing section, for anyone interested in joining._

 _In the meantime, though, snip breakdowns!_

 ** _1.1 to 1.3 –_** _The starting point! Character introductions and all that. The scenes here don't have a canon counterpart in the game. They're alluded to heavily in character logs and dialogue, however, and an external shot of the station blowing up is what the game opens on, so it's the ideal place for the loop start._

 ** _1.4 –_** _Dexter Hovis. Still one of my favorite sequences in any game, music and all. Really pumps you up for wiping the smug grin off his face._

 ** _1.5 –_** _There's a few cutscenes in Freelancer that could've gone completely differently with foresight available. This was one of them. Most of the dialogue here is from the game itself, with some variation, but Trent was planning to get hit, so his following the rails makes sense._

 ** _1.6 –_** _Having a snip where Freeport 7 doesn't blow up was a logical step for showing Trent how changes can be subtle as well as significant._

 ** _1.7 –_** _Obligatory. That is all._

 ** _1.8 –_** _This idea was prompted by Masterweaver, and is as nuts as it sounds. I think that's all that really needs to be said._

 ** _1.9 –_** _The first fused loop! Having someone as… odd as Gordon Freeman, the Anchor for Half-Life, give Trent his 'Welcome to the Multiverse' speech made sense. It gives Trent a taste of things to come in the personality of one man._

 ** _1.10 –_** _There's a number of oddities that come from Freelancer's game mechanics. Factions attacking you on sight if your reputation is bad with them is just one of the ones featured here._

 ** _1.11 –_** _I originally wanted one of RWBY's Loopers to visit Freelancer, rather than the other way around, but the ideas used came to me before the ideas I originally wanted, which as of this writing have yet to materialize._

 ** _1.12 –_** _Finally got to do the MLP snip I wanted. Also, got to kill two birds with one stone and set up Freelancer's second Looper. Ladies and gents, I give you Richard Winston Tobias. There may have been more obvious candidates, but he made more sense from the perspective of backstory ties._

 _Next chapter coming… well, given how many months it took to write all this, um…_


End file.
